laughed softly and looked back at his son. “Something to eat and drink, Garva.”
Without ceremony, Jurak sat down on the hard ground.
The scent of crushed sage washed up around him, a pleasant smell: crisp, warm, ladened with memories.
Hawthorne’s aide dismounted as well, unclipping a folding camp chair from behind Vincent’s saddle and bringing it up.
“Hope you don’t mind that I use a chair,” Vincent asked. “At least then we can see eye to eye, and it’s a bit easier on me.”
Jurak nodded, realizing that Vincent was aware of the implications of sitting higher in the presence of the Qar Qarth.
Garva brought forward a jar filled with kumiss and two earthen mugs. Pouring the drinks, he handed them over. Jurak dipped his finger into the mug and flicked droplets to the four winds and then to the earth before drinking.
As he did so, his gaze fell on Vincent’s aide. The boy was watching him, fascinated. There was something vaguely familiar to Jurak.
“Jurak, may I introduce Lieutenant Abraham Keane, who is serving as my adjutant.”
“Your sire, then, is Andrew Keane?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You come from good blood. How is your father?”
“Well, sir. He asked that I convey to you his personal respects, and his regrets as well for the passing of your mate.”
Jurak nodded his thanks. “We both know pain, your sire and I. You are his only surviving son, are you not?”
“Yes, Qar Qarth Jurak.”
“Interesting that he became your—how do you call it— your president yet again. Does he enjoy such power?”
“No, sir. It was never his desire to hold that rank.”
Jurak smiled. “All of ability desire power.”
“And I assume your aide is your son?” Vincent interrupted.
Garva stiffened, and then formally nodded with head slightly bowed.
Jurak, caught by surprise, said nothing.
“I could see your blood in him. Tell me, do you desire power, son of the Qar Qarth?”
“Of course,” Garva replied stiffly. “When my sire goes to our ancestors, I shall rule as he did.”
“And how shall that be?” Vincent asked. “How shall you rule?”
Jurak looked over at his son, eyes filled with warning “Justly,” Garva replied coolly.
“Yes, your father has been just.”
“To whom?” Jurak asked. “Just to your people or to mine?”
“There has been no war for twenty years. I think that is a worthy accomplishment.”
“No war. Define war, Vincent Hawthorne.”
“I don’t need to do that for you. We both know what it is.”
“Let us get, as you humans say, ‘down to business.’ ” Vincent nodded.
“I received your listing of complaints—the incident at Tamira’s Bridge, the refusal of passage to the Nippon settlers, the supposed raids, the disappearance of two flyers, the rumors of raids to take prisoners for the moon feast, and all the other allegations.”
“You may call them allegations. I attended the funeral of the thirty-two men killed at Tamira, and their dead bodies were not allegation but fact. As to the incident where a dozen Chin settlers disappeared, by God, if they were sacrificed, I will have one hell of a problem restraining Congress from ordering a punitive expedition. Remember, the Chin are the single largest voting block, and they are screaming bloody murder over this rumor.”
“Fifty-three of my riders died at Tamira,” Jurak replied, choosing to ignore the issue of the Chin, “and the question is who shot first. We both have our own answers to that.”
“It could have sparked a war.”
“And you have yet to define war to me, Hawthorne. Remember, I am not of this world. I came here from another place, as did you. I was educated on a world where there are things you cannot imagine or dream of.”
Vincent stiffened slightly. “Such as weapons you might dream of?”
“Perhaps, yes. And in my education, I studied the writings of Ju ta Vina, who stated, ‘War is the eternal process, and peace is but the preparation for the renewal of
Without ceremony, Jurak sat down on the hard ground.
The scent of crushed sage washed up around him, a pleasant smell: crisp, warm, ladened with memories.
Hawthorne’s aide dismounted as well, unclipping a folding camp chair from behind Vincent’s saddle and bringing it up.
“Hope you don’t mind that I use a chair,” Vincent asked. “At least then we can see eye to eye, and it’s a bit easier on me.”
Jurak nodded, realizing that Vincent was aware of the implications of sitting higher in the presence of the Qar Qarth.
Garva brought forward a jar filled with kumiss and two earthen mugs. Pouring the drinks, he handed them over. Jurak dipped his finger into the mug and flicked droplets to the four winds and then to the earth before drinking.
As he did so, his gaze fell on Vincent’s aide. The boy was watching him, fascinated. There was something vaguely familiar to Jurak.
“Jurak, may I introduce Lieutenant Abraham Keane, who is serving as my adjutant.”
“Your sire, then, is Andrew Keane?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You come from good blood. How is your father?”
“Well, sir. He asked that I convey to you his personal respects, and his regrets as well for the passing of your mate.”
Jurak nodded his thanks. “We both know pain, your sire and I. You are his only surviving son, are you not?”
“Yes, Qar Qarth Jurak.”
“Interesting that he became your—how do you call it— your president yet again. Does he enjoy such power?”
“No, sir. It was never his desire to hold that rank.”
Jurak smiled. “All of ability desire power.”
“And I assume your aide is your son?” Vincent interrupted.
Garva stiffened, and then formally nodded with head slightly bowed.
Jurak, caught by surprise, said nothing.
“I could see your blood in him. Tell me, do you desire power, son of the Qar Qarth?”
“Of course,” Garva replied stiffly. “When my sire goes to our ancestors, I shall rule as he did.”
“And how shall that be?” Vincent asked. “How shall you rule?”
Jurak looked over at his son, eyes filled with warning “Justly,” Garva replied coolly.
“Yes, your father has been just.”
“To whom?” Jurak asked. “Just to your people or to mine?”
“There has been no war for twenty years. I think that is a worthy accomplishment.”
“No war. Define war, Vincent Hawthorne.”
“I don’t need to do that for you. We both know what it is.”
“Let us get, as you humans say, ‘down to business.’ ” Vincent nodded.
“I received your listing of complaints—the incident at Tamira’s Bridge, the refusal of passage to the Nippon settlers, the supposed raids, the disappearance of two flyers, the rumors of raids to take prisoners for the moon feast, and all the other allegations.”
“You may call them allegations. I attended the funeral of the thirty-two men killed at Tamira, and their dead bodies were not allegation but fact. As to the incident where a dozen Chin settlers disappeared, by God, if they were sacrificed, I will have one hell of a problem restraining Congress from ordering a punitive expedition. Remember, the Chin are the single largest voting block, and they are screaming bloody murder over this rumor.”
“Fifty-three of my riders died at Tamira,” Jurak replied, choosing to ignore the issue of the Chin, “and the question is who shot first. We both have our own answers to that.”
“It could have sparked a war.”
“And you have yet to define war to me, Hawthorne. Remember, I am not of this world. I came here from another place, as did you. I was educated on a world where there are things you cannot imagine or dream of.”
Vincent stiffened slightly. “Such as weapons you might dream of?”
“Perhaps, yes. And in my education, I studied the writings of Ju ta Vina, who stated, ‘War is the eternal process, and peace is but the preparation for the renewal of
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